Never Doubt It
by cloverblob
Summary: She'd begged her to stay, forced seductive energy through her arm and told her that she needed her – that she loved her. But Bo's love was never the thing in question.


As she understands it, and she understands a great many things, there is a difference between love and suffering. And she wonders if she can remember a time when the two were not so closely entwined; a time when she could love freely and live happily but her life has not been so kind as of late. Love is hard, freedom is unattainable, life is fleeting, and happiness is something she has tried to achieve that should not have to _be_ achieved.

Loyalty is not merely a virtue to Lauren, it is everything. She is loyal to her family, to her patients, to her friends, to her country, and most endearingly, to her lovers. What she lacks is loyalty for _herself_. She does not fear for her safety, she does not cower from dangers that target others; she is simply there when needed. And it would be suffice to say, this realization was her undoing.

She would have left when she realized where she stood. She should have stood up for herself, for her own heart – for some goddamn self-respect. But she couldn't see the signs. Or maybe she didn't want to see the signs. Or maybe, and this was most likely, she had been trotted upon for so long that finding someone who promised to love her, however toxic that relationship might be, she would accept it.

It pained her to realize how low she stood on the totem pole of importance in her lover's life. And she wondered if she could ever come first, if she could climb her way to the top if she just stood steadfast and strong. And she might have been able to get there. But she shouldn't have to. She simply should have been enough.

But she _wasn't_ enough_._

It was startling clear now. Her love, her sacrifice, her loyalty – it had meant so little to so many. Her life was wasting for those who would never pay back the favour. Not that she wanted or expected any recompense; just maybe some acknowledgement would have been nice. She would have run across the entire world barefoot for Bo Dennis.

And it wouldn't have been enough.

She laughs, bitter and hurt. Literally, she is wincing in pain – leaning heavily against a post. The shard of glass has lodged itself in her upper abdomen, her stomach acids will slowly seep out and burn their way through her organs if she does not first bleed out. She has witnessed a similar wound before during her first tour in Afghanistan. All alone, she stands little chance at survival. It will be slow, and it is certainly painful.

Lauren wonders how Bo will react. Will she break down? Will she vow revenge? Will she wish she'd enthralled her as she'd threatened? She'd begged her to stay, forced seductive energy through her arm and told her that she needed her – that she loved her. But Bo's love was never the thing in question.

Lauren simply couldn't do it anymore. "We- _I_ need a break," she'd said, smiling sadly and caressing her lover's tear-filled face in her hand. "I love you, and I want to be there for you. But I am not your servant, Bo. Can you promise I'll always come first? Can you say that I will always be your top priority?"

Her silent response had said more than words ever could. Lauren had laughed despairingly, placed a kiss to Bo's forehead, and wiped the tears from her face. She'd turned to leave, but Bo had held onto her hand – her single last plea.

Actions speak louder, they said. Lauren had decided to accept Bo's intention until she could accept it no longer. She accepted that Bo wanted to be monogamous, but could not. She accepted that Bo wanted to be there for her, but could not. She accepted that Bo wanted to love only her, but could not. And then she stopped accepting it. Just like that – the twine had snapped and a devastating realization sprung free: Bo, with belief that Lauren would always accept, had stopped trying.

As the muscles in her neck grow weaker, she lets her head fall upon her shoulder. From the ribcage up, she might look like she was merely falling asleep. She isn't. She's dying, and an odd contentment shines upon her face. After everything she had been through for her succubus, it wasn't until she'd left her that she'd make her greatest sacrifice.

It wasn't even Lauren the faeral shifters were after, it was Bo's scent. And she reeks of it. There's an irony there and she would chuckle about it if she could.

The pain is receding and Lauren knows what that means. It means she is fading now, her body has begun to shut down and she will cease to exist in anything but memory. She derives a sort of comfort in that. For thousands of years she might live there in Bo's memory, possibly faded and distorted with time; but still present.

With a small smile, she closes her eyes for the last time and lolls her head back against the post, the length between each breath growing longer and longer. Her hearing will go last, but she'll have lost all consciousness by then; the pain so intense it can no longer keep her awake. She thinks of Bo and how she wishes she could comfort her through her own death. How _ridiculous_ is that? How ironic?

"_Lauren, please,"_ she hears.

That pleading – she will die with the sound of Bo's voice begging her to stay. It is filled with pain, and suddenly the good doctor regrets having been the cause of her girlfriend's tears. Girlfriend. It's such an inadequate word for the love they share—or will have _shared_, she supposes.

"_Don't leave me."_

It was Lauren's choice to leave, and she does not quite regret it. But the choice of returning has been robbed from her. And because of that, she feels angry. She feels sorrow. And then she feels exhausted – until she feels nothing.

"Please wake up," Bo cries.

She is huddled over her bloody body, now shaking her lover violently. She struggles to breathe, but manages to lift Lauren into her arms beyond sobbing cries. She runs like never before. She will save her doctor. She will save her love; and she will do it at any cost.

"You'll come first, Lauren. Always. I promise."


End file.
